


easy

by smithens



Series: kindling [2]
Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Bittersweet, Christmas, M/M, Outtakes, Phone Calls & Telephones, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-26
Updated: 2020-12-26
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:13:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28343709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smithens/pseuds/smithens
Summary: Christmas day's telephone call, 1940.
Relationships: Thomas Barrow/Richard Ellis
Series: kindling [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2075673
Comments: 5
Kudos: 47





	easy

**Author's Note:**

> this is an outtake from [kindling](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28329321), which i just posted. didn't want to fuck with the 5+1 format and chose to include '39 over this one. that's it!

**1940**

"Well, we're all in the same shelter for air raids, so you can imagine that's awkward."

"Heavens," Thomas says, ignoring the way his heart's just leapt into his throat, ignoring the quickening of his pulse, the worry seeping into his lungs. "I certainly can."

"We keep separate where possible," Richard says. "'S all a matter of proximity, really, just put the housemaids on the opposite side of the room… it's a funny thing, actually, most of the lower ten," lower dozens, more like, at Buckingham Palace, "have never been within spitting distance of Their Majesties and now we're all packed in together like sardines every other night."

"Hope nobody's listening at the door," Thomas says, "wouldn't want somebody to overhear you say spitting distance when it comes to them."

"No, nobody's listening at the door," he replies, even. He sees right through him just as usual. Patient though Richard is, he never lets Thomas talk around things for too long, but he's more indulgent some times than others. "Too busy, at this hour."

They'd never telephoned in daylight—well, in the daytime, it's still very dark at the moment, at least in Yorkshire—til this year, and now it's their only option.

So of course it happens much less frequently than it ever used to, not that it was ever very frequent to begin with. And they haven't seen each other since–

"Thomas?"

"Yes?"

"Are you doing as I asked?"

"Not worrying, you mean?"

"Yeah."

"No."

Richard laughs; so does Thomas. It's easy to laugh now, at seven o'clock in the morning, with a house bustling around him and everybody upstairs doing their best to embody the Christmas spirit, knowing he's going to head up again in a bit and put on a happy face before a bunch of children whose parents (not to mention the government) are relying on him and the Crawleys to get them through this safe. Less easy when the house is quiet, less easy when he leads the grace in the servants' hall, less easy when he opens up the papers—which he hasn't yet today. He's putting it off.

Since September he hasn't been able to sleep at night, for worrying.

"There are plenty of blokes who deserve your concern more than I do, love."

"What, do you think I haven't got room in my head for all of them?"

They've got a bloody list up in the servants' hall. He can't fucking walk past Master George's bedroom without steeling himself.

"Just remember I'm by far not the only one who could do with good will."

"Duly noted," Thomas replies. His voice hasn't betrayed him yet. "But I'm keeping you on my mind anyway." He swallows. "Just as I did before the war," God he hates saying that, he hates that it means something different than it would have just two measly years ago, that it's about a different time and different places, "and just as I will after."

Richard exhales, long. The sound of it crackles in his ear, but he doesn't hold the telephone away, doesn't move his head. Can't miss an instant of his voice, of his breath, not when this is the only chance either of them will have for who knows how long. They write letters every day—literally, every day, even if it's just a few words at a time, a here's-what-I-did-at-work-today-by-the-way-I-miss-you note—but it's not the same, not at all. 

Thomas leans back in his chair and stares at the ceiling and hopes he's not about to say anything he doesn't want to hear.

They are rapidly nearing the end of their mutually-agreed-upon ten minutes. 

"I hope you're right, where after's concerned."

He hopes come-what-may that by the end of all this (it ended last time; it'll end this time, just this go round they can't be daft enough to expect it'll happen any time soon) Thomas is still thinking of him _alive,_ Richard means. 

Or maybe that's just where his own mind goes. Optimism's never suited him but he can't go on like this; neither of them can.

"That isn't the sort of thing you should be saying to somebody you keep telling _not to worry._ "

"When I say not to worry," Richard says slowly, "what I'm asking is that you don't dwell on it, that you don't cross bridges til you get to them."

"But?"

"But they may still come along, Thomas, and we ought to face the possibility where we have to."

Exactly the sort of thing he hadn't wanted to hear. _Thank you, Richard._

"We're not having this conversation on Christmas morning."

"Thomas–"

"We're not, Richard." 

"Right." He pauses. "Looks like we're about out of time."

"I've got my eye on the clock, Mr Ellis, don't you worry."

Because he can't be trusted to.

"You'll tell me when that parcel arrives?"

"I've said I would three times over already," Thomas tells him, "your memory's going."

"I hope you like it," Richard says, and Thomas can just picture him swaying on his heels, fiddling with his buttons. Even after thirteen years he gets nervous, giving him things, same as the very first time. The mere idea that he _wouldn't_ like it is hilarious. He's never got anything from Richard he hasn't wanted to stick under his pillow or keep on his person or otherwise live-and-breathe, not once. 

"Glad you liked yours," he replies, feeling suddenly sort of dizzy, but in a nice way. It'll fade as soon as they hang up probably but it's a pleasant feeling for now.

"It's perfect." A lull, and then: "you're on my mind, too, Thomas, I can assure you."

"Am I really?"

"Every day."

"I've got you beat, then," Thomas jokes, "you're on mine every hour."

"Every minute."

"I haven't known you to keep track of those–" 

"Merry Christmas, Thomas," Richard interrupts, through his own laughter, or something that comes close to it, at least. "Let's talk again soon."

"Soon as we can." _Deep breath…_ "Merry Christmas, Richard."

Richard tells him he loves him before hanging up the phone without waiting for a reply, and Thomas vows to get back at him for that one next time.

**Author's Note:**

> some fill-in-the-blank liberties taken here historically, but yes, the air raid shelter at buckingham palace was in the servants' quarters below grade, specifically the housemaids' sitting room. no idea how that worked in real life but it is true that you could work in buckingham palace for years and never be in the same room as a member of the family (aside from like, servants' balls, funnily enough). i believe the shelter situation was similar at windsor castle??? king george vi split his time in any case, they didn't completely abandon buckingham palace as a residence (not the same case for the children). windsor castle was never bombed but the palace was multiple times and the family (again, minus the children) and servants were in residence on several occasions.
> 
> thank you for reading <3


End file.
